


See No Evil

by hiddencait



Series: 2013 Fic Finishing Challenge [1]
Category: Pitch Black (2000)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Present Tense, blind OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddencait/pseuds/hiddencait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's another survivor of the HG, one that the others are sure can only be a liability. She even agrees with them. Still, the dark is the one thing she has never feared, and that might be the edge that keeps her alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of 3 fics I plan to complete in 2013 for my personal Fic Finishing Challenge. All three were originally posted over at FFN over 1-2 years ago, but I am spending most of my time here, so thus the crossposting.
> 
> So, yes this is an OC and it will be an eventual Riddick-centric pairing, but trust me when I say the romance is a very slow build and hopefully realistic to Riddick's character. The character deaths shouldn't be a shock to anyone who's seen the movie, but I wanted to give yall fair warning just in case!
> 
> Also, this was an insane personal challenge to my self to try to write a first person blind OC, not because I think I can do it accurately (as I am not blind), but because I needed to work on immersing myself in my fics beyond just sight as a sense. Hopefully I'm portraying the disability respectfully - if there's something completely off, PLEASE let me know! I really do want to do this well.
> 
> The present tense was actually the recommendation of my beta as part of a challenge to work on keeping my stories in the action, so to speak. Who knows on that one, but it's definitely making me stretch my writing muscles!

I am not awake.

I'm not awake, and this is a dream. It must be. While yes, even someone as sheltered as I once was has heard the horror stories about men more animal than man whose primitive sides stayed awake and aware in cryo-sleep, but they are only that: stories. No one really stays conscious during cryo-sleep. It isn't possible.

It cannot be possible.

No, I must be dreaming, though this is as vivid as few of my dreams have ever been. It is so very real. I almost feel I could reach out and touch the chamber around me. Not that I will.

So be it. There is little else to do while I sleep away this journey. I suppose I shall allow myself to dream.

There is no light nor color in this dream, but then I expected neither. Even in my dreams, I am as blind as I have been all my life. There have been times that I have railed against this lack in myself, a failing as painful to me as my existence is to my dear Father.

My _dear_ Father. I daresay he has finally auctioned off the weight around his neck. I doubt the bidding was high; damaged goods like one blind useless daughter would not attract the more wealthy scions Father has so often associated with. No, judging from the dubious class of freighter I find myself on, my future husband is not likely to be a first class citizen.

Unless Father actually had the audacity to offer me to those who might _enjoy_ a bride they did not need to keep in pristine condition. Hmm. That seems more likely the longer I think of it. It would not surprise me in the least to be beaten as soon as the vows are paid for.

Dear, dear Father. If I had even the slightest chance of succeeding, I might simply stow away on this vessel indefinitely. Find some distant world where a young woman might blend in to the masses, start anew as a secretary or librarian perhaps. I am easily learned enough for either role. Isolated as he kept me, there was little to do _but_ learn when I was young.

It does me little good now. Even dreaming, I know better than to think I would survive on my own, handicapped as I am. I can function on a day to day basis thanks to my tutors, but I know it would not be enough. Not without some kind soul at my side.

I am not sheltered enough nor naive enough to think that many kind souls still exist in this universe.

Where am I going, I wonder? I wasn't told my destination, only that I was leaving and away I went. I could be on my way to mythic Camelot or long drowned Atlantis for all I know. Legend or reality, it hardly matters anyway. After all, I will hardly see the world we arrive on, will I?

Enough of these thoughts. Enough. Self-pity is a bitter pill to swallow, and I do not need more bitterness in my life.

So, what else to dream, what else to wonder?

What company am I keeping on this drab little freighter? I passed several others when the docking pilot led me to my cryo-chamber. So, think on them, little dreamer: who might they be?

There was a man, his voice exotic; the syllables rolling of his tongue in a way I had never heard before. His voice was serene, collected, even despite the cacophony created by the young men I heard near him. Was he a teacher perhaps? Or a father with his sons? A father content with his sons...

The others. I should consider the others, I think, before my mind drifts back to bitterness.

There was a woman traveling with a man I would guess to be her husband by the easy way they banter back and forth and the way their scents have mingled into one. Something faintly floral from her hair mixed with pipe tobacco from his breath and the sweat from both their skins. They too speak with an accent I have not heard before. It's rough and strong, and I imagine the woman might be both. Her husband spoke of work and a frontier colony. She would need to be strong in such an environment.

She apparently picked up a bit of a shadow. A street kid judging from the gutter slang. Mouthy little thing. Every other word so far has been one that a lady like myself is not supposed to know, and honestly the usage was rather inspired. I kept mental notes of my favorites.

The next passenger nearly knocked me over, the pompous little weasel. Weaselly voice, weaselly sly movements around me. His clothes felt expensive, but shabby around the edges. I felt at least one hidden patch in his tunic when I kept myself from falling. He actually had to gall to snipe at me for "mussing" his clothing. Ugh.

I only remember two others. Two that only teased at my senses before the docking pilot shuffled me quickly by with some mutter of "It's better not to look." Not that I could actually look, of course.

The first smelled of gun oil and something faintly medicinal. The slow liquid drawl of his voice contrasting sharply with the jarring thud of his heavy boots. There was a great deal of humor in that voice. Humor yes, but none of it kind. I cannot help but feel a bit of pity for the target of his taunts. I've been a similar victim often enough, after all.

Victim. There is a word that I doubt actually applies to the second man, now that I think on him carefully. He never said a word; that at the very least set him apart from the others. Why, I wonder? Did he choose to keep silent or was it something else? The latter rings more true. Rings a bit like the chains that rustled around him as he moved. There was no other sound though. Not even his footsteps, and my hearing is quite acute. All of my senses are in the absence of sight.

The silence of him makes me shiver. There menace to that eerie quiet. There's equal menace in the scent of him. It was faint, only a whiff, but there can be no doubting it. Blood tinged with sweat and fury. A very great deal of fury, which to my mind made the silence that much more sinister. There are few who can keep quiet with that much rage in them.

Now _he_ might be awake in cryo. He just might be.

I'm not though; I am sure I'm not. I am only dreaming. Please God, let me only be dreaming.


	2. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I notice another author mentioning this and I figured I clear up my "cannon" on this too. For the purposes of this fic- Riddick's eyeshine is going to be due to him being an Alpha Furyan, not due to any kind of surgery. As far as I'm concerned, he was born this way. Sorry if that bugs anyone, but after looking at ALL of the cannon (games included) I came to the conclusion that this is one of those fandoms where the cannon actually argues with itself. Which gives me full rights to pick whatever side of the argument I choose. So there lol.

If I dreamed before, I have woken to a nightmare. A nightmare that started so innocently: a few sharp pops and a hiss and then faint beeping of alarms from the chamber beside mine. Those few sounds ring in my ears, startling me awake from my reverie. The ship around me begins to shake in a way that even I can recognize must not be normal. A second round of pops shatters the silence again, and this time I hear someone begin to move beside me.

Is it… Frye, I think, the docking pilot who'd led me to my cryo chamber. I had not realized I was placed with the crew. It should be comforting, but now as I hear Frye and another crewman fall to the deck with a pair of heavy slams, I wish I'd been placed with the other civilians.

"He's dead." Who's dead, I want to ask. "The captain's dead." Now I wish the thought had gone unanswered. The captain dead… what would that mean for the passengers? For me? We're over 22 weeks out from our destination. That's a long way away from any help. My heart begins to race as Frye and the other, Owens I hear her call him, all but run to what I think is the far side of the room judging from the sound of their footsteps. Once they're there, the claxon of alarms increases, the sound all but assaulting my keen hearing.

"Get me out." I can't help that whimper, but I will keep from repeating it. I desperately want to be free of this tiny box that shakes with ever increasing force, but I know I'm likely safer in here. Better secure and restrained, than loose where I might be thrown about. "And better locked up than a distraction," I whisper to myself.

The sound of my own voice is only a weak comfort. I try to focus on Owens sending out an SOS, but suddenly I hear a curse. The ship has lost comms? How will we call for help? Fuck, we need help!

I catch myself begin to hyperventilate and I struggle to calm myself. I fail as the ship jerks again.

"What the-Frye was that a purge?" A purge… I tried to remember what I'd learned about piloting and aerodynamics. It was something I never paid much attention to as it was a reminder of something I'd never be able to actually do. But I can remember… I know… That was it: the craft needed to be relatively level to land properly. Where the hell are we supposed to land? Aren't we still in space?

Another hard jerk slams me into the side of the chamber and tells me more load has been purged. I can't tell if it's enough. I feel level, or relatively so, but then I felt level before the first purge. The shaking of the ship makes it so hard to be sure. I lift my arms and shove them hard into either side of the chamber, trying to keep myself steady. It seems stupid not to have us strapped in to these stupid things. Though, I suppose the designers weren't expecting passengers to be woken by this kind of turbulence. Perhaps they just expected us to die in our sleep in this situation.

No, no I won't think of that. I'm not going to die. I can't. For heaven's sake this is the first time I've never been off of Astarte Prime and barely ever off of the estate. I will _not_ die here is this box. There has to be hope. I must believe that, or I might as well die now.

Owens is listing off a seemingly endless amount of data now; most of it seems to do with atmosphere. That's good. That must be good. It means we have somewhere to land this horrible wreck of a ship. I focus on the details wanting, needing, as much knowledge as I can get.

With a sudden foreboding slam of sound, Owens's voice is shut off. I whimper again; for his voice to be lost to even my hearing likely means an airlock has been closed. And after the former cargo purging, I have only one guess as to why the crew have closed themselves in behind an airlock door.

"Please someone… Don't let me die!" I finally allow myself to scream; after all, there was no longer any one to distract. My fingers find the release lever for my cryo-chamber, and I am only moments away from releasing it, when I hear the faint creak of the airlock opening again.

"70 seconds, Frye. You still have 70 seconds to level this beast out." Owens grunts in what likely is surprise. "Some of them are waking up Frye. We've gotta give them a chance."

I blink as his words sink in and I listen hard, trying to pick up anything through the sound of whistling air and shrieking metal. There, yes, there is a gasp of fright or two. One, a man mutters under his breath, and a woman is hyperventilating as I was only moments ago. And now- did someone leave their chamber? That is _not_ the safest course of action I can think of. With that thought, I all but snatch my hand away from the lever.

Owens lets out another curse, and I wonder what else could possibly be going wrong in addition to the approaching emergency landing and impending death and dismemberment. Then, I decide not to wonder and just to hold on tighter as the ship shakes even harder around me. The temperature has risen as well, yet another foreboding sign if I remember correctly. The only reason I can think of for the heat wave is atmospheric re-entry. Thehull should have protected us from that. Or, more accurately, an _intact_ hull.

With that thought in mind, I brace my legs against the walls as well as my arms, anything that might keep me alive. Suddenly another massive jolt to the ship actually bounces me off of my feet, and I scream out as I land hard. The whistling of the air outside the ship becomes a horrifying roar, and soon I can't hear my own voice over the sound.

Then, there is another painful screech and the ship comes violently to a halt. I am thrown forward and I slam forward into the front panel of the chamber face first with a sickening crunch. I have a brief moment of gratitude for the thick padding of my wrap around glasses, but then I succumb to blackness.

…

Once again, it is sound that wakes me. A crash and a muffled shout breaks though the blackness, and I drag myself back to consciousness and into utter discomfort. I've, not unexpectedly considering the blow to the head, fallen to the floor of the chamber. My limbs are all in knots, and the edges of the blasted corset and other frippery that my "station" demands I wear dig hard into my sides. I can only be grateful that I've never wore the thing as tight as fashion demands. Wincing, I untangle my limbs one by one and climb carefully to my feet. The voices call out again, and I try to clear my throat to reply, coughing away dust that I hadn't noticed before.

"Here!" I wince as the cry comes out hoarse and almost silent. I cough again before giving it another try. "I'm here!" I fumble my hands up all four sides of the chamber trying to find the release lever. After a moment of scramble, I do, and I yank down with what little strength I can find. Nothing happens. I try again, and then again, almost sobbing as claustrophobia and panic suddenly crash down upon me. I want out!

"Please somebody _help me!_ " I actually manage a true shriek, my throat screaming with me in pain. To my horror, the voices seem to move away, and I can't help screaming again in fear and frustration. "Get me out! Get me out get me out get me out! Please." A sudden crash comes from directly in front of me, and I jump and shriek again in surprise. A woman's voice sounds closer than before, and I almost sob in relief.

"I told you I heard someone. Get that bloody panel off the door." It's the married woman and I cannot help but feel the hint of accent, of something I'd already recognized and categorized, is comforting. Even if the woman proves not to be, she is alive and so must I be. There is a pop and hiss, and then a faint smell of burning coming from the right front edge of the chamber. "Hey, you need to get away from the door, sheila. We've got a torch burning."

It takes me a moment to comprehend her meaning, and then I press myself against the back wall of the chamber. With a last louder hiss and a crash, I suddenly feel fresh air burst against my skin. I reach out hesitantly with my left hand to trace the side of the chamber out to where the doors no longer were. I inch my way forward, testing my footing carefully, the thin slippers I wear allowing me to feel out the grating beneath me.

"Well, you coming or what?" There's the kid, as mouthy as when we boarded, and apparently just as impatient. "Let's go. You aren't going to stay in there, are you?"

"That's enough, Jack. Leave her be." A strong, slender hand plucks my fingers from the edge of the door and the woman half leads me out of the chamber. "Are you alright? Dizzy at all?"

"No, I'm fine." I have one monster of a headache but I'm fine. I find myself painfully grateful that she doesn't release me completely. Instead, she grabs my elbow continuing to support my weight a little.

"What's with the bloody headgear?" I cringe a bit, knowing I should have expected that oh-so-typical reaction. I feel the woman make some sort of movement in her husband's direction. "Easy, Shazza. I didn't mean anything by it." I sigh and decide to answer before they end up arguing.

"I'm blind. The glasses are to… cover up what's left of my eyes." There is a beat of silence, and then a quiet 'Oh' from each of the three. I swallow back another sigh.

"So, who are you anyway?" The kid comes to my rescue, and I smile over, deciding I might like this 'Jack.'

"Blaire. I'm Blaire."


	3. Survivors

When the rustling and rattling of people freeing themselves of the wreckage finally stops, I focus on the sound and scent of those around me and count, perhaps, 14 survivors out of the original 40 or so passengers and crew. It is a frightening number to think on: one I know might have been a great deal lower. We are the lucky few, I know, but as screams reach us from the forward cabin, I cannot help but dwell on the fact that we may not stay so lucky. So far Shazza has kept close, allowing me to use her as a guide amidst all of the debris. At the sound of the screams though, she turns in that direction, and I wish silently that she would allow us to stay away or at least would release my arm and let me stay behind. There's a horror in those painful cries like nothing I have ever experienced before.

As we draw closer, I can smell blood thick and heavy in the air, and I can just barely recognize Owens in the labored painful shouting.

"Don't- don't you touch that handle, Frye!"

I shudder; he's saved us all or so I am almost sure, and even as he dies in front of us, he's still trying to keep his passengers safe. This is the closest I have ever been to a hero. I wish again that Shazza had let me stay away. I am grateful and guilty when Frye orders us to go. I don't envy her that last vigil at her crew mate's side.

Shazza leans on her man now, and I am falling behind as he, Zeke I think his name is, storms out of this ship. His long strides take my new safety net away from me, and I resist the urge to call out for her to wait. Instead, I pick my way carefully in the direction I hear them take, each step slow and easy as I feel my way across the metal grate floor. I begin to feel the heat of sun light when I stop, startled by the scent of another near me.

It's _him._ The one who'd kept so silent before, who smelled of rage and blood. The scent is no less strong now, and I shiver. I am about to move on when a sound, so faint I almost think I imagine it, stops me. It is the almost imperceptible intake of breath, as if the silent man is sniffing the air. I freeze: has he just deliberately scented me out? That is not something a normal sighted person would do. It's... it's the reaction of some great animal, I realize. I shiver again, my breath shallow in my chest. Chains, blood, instinct; all of these add up to tell me this man can only be a predator.

I am woefully unprepared to defend myself as prey if it comes to that.

I am startled out of my reverie by a hand falling heavily on my shoulder, and I try to jerk away. The hand holds tight, and I find myself even more intimidated than I was by the animal.

"Shouldn't stand here, miss. Shouldn't tempt him." The smooth drawl is gentle, almost jovial, but I am not comforted by it. This new man still has the faint hint of laughter under his words, and I find nothing funny about the circumstances we find ourselves in. I force myself to relax under his hand as he obviously expects me too. As I do, he pulls me gently past the still-silent man and out toward the heat and dust.

"Who... who is he? Some criminal?" I don't mean to ask, but I somehow can't help myself. It's alright though, I realize, as the other man answers almost immediately, as if just waiting for the audience.

"He's a criminal all right, one of the worst. Richard B. Riddick- he's a murderer who just escaped a maximum security prison." The hand on my shoulder strokes lightly and I sidle carefully away, as if unaware I do so. I don't know what it is about this man that puts my guard up. I'm not sure I want to.

"Is he dangerous?" I ask almost absently, my anxious mind contemplating the thought of more than one threat to the survival of the rest of the passengers "I mean... are we safe with him here?"

I feel the faint shifting of his body beside me, and I wonder if he's shrugged or laughed or given me some other visual reaction. It seems yet another of the survivors is ignorant of the meaning of my glasses. He finally seems to notice my lack of response, and he answers aloud.

"Long as he stays locked up, we'll be fine." This time I cannot hide the jerk of surprise when I feel his hand squeeze my shoulder again. He releases me almost at once. "Still jittery, aren't you?" There's a snort of a half laugh from him, and I struggle to compose myself. "Don't worry about it. In this kind of situation, it's not so bad to keep on your toes." He waits a beat, and again I wonder what I am missing of his body language. "I'm Johns. And you are?"

"I'm Blaire." I try to fake a smile, and he seems to buy it. I am grateful he doesn't pry for the rest of my name; my father's influence is not something that will make my ordeal any easier.

I hear Johns taking a few steps away, and I follow hesitantly out into the blazing heat and dusty air. I nearly stumble as I take an unexpected step down off of the metal grating of the ship and out onto a shifting mix of sand and stones. I wince as one of those stones stabs painfully through the bottom of my light slippers. I think I should try to find my trunk if possible. The garb I currently wear might have been fashionable on Astarte Prime, but it is hardly appropriate for the business of surviving after a crash on an alien planet. I smirk a little to myself at the sudden thought of a fashion line designed specifically for such circumstances. I imagine "crash victim chic" could be quite popular with some of the more rebellious youths in my limited social circle.

Johns has continued on to wherever he planned to go, and I realize I've been left behind. I take a few faltering steps to my left, seeking the outer wall of the ship as a guide. I reach it and jerk my hand back in pain and shock I've forgotten the heat of re-entry. The metal of the ship is still too hot for comfort, and in the desert heat around us, I doubt it will cool anytime soon. I am debating on simply returning to the ship's interior for lack of a better destination, when I hear young Jack's voice calling my name. I turn in that direction, and reach my hand out hopefully. When the young street rat takes my hand as Shazza did earlier, I find I am ridiculously grateful.

It is the helplessness that comes with my blindness that I have always hated the most.

I am saved from wallowing in that feeling as Jack leads me off in a new direction, chattering away a mile a minute about the crash and the ship and Shazza says that and did I see the convict and half a dozen other subjects I am hard pressed to keep track of. The running dialogue continues as my erstwhile rescuer half-drags me along behind.

"Here she is, Shazza! I found her!" I am almost embarrassed by the fact that clearly Jack has been sent to find me like an enthusiastic sheepdog after a poor wandered lamb, but I have little energy to be truly embarrassed by that. Jack releases my hand, and again I am comforted when I feel Shazza's strong hand take mine again. I wonder just who in her life was afflicted as I am; she is far too comfortable with my disability for the experience to be new to her. It is a question I doubt I will have the courage to ask. Obviously that person is not here now.

After a moment's musing, I realize we are standing near the other survivors or at least near all but the holy man and, I guess, the boys who were with him. The holy man I hear a bit farther to our right, his rich accent uplifted in some chant I've not heard before. There is a mournful haunting quality to the words, and I wonder at their meaning. The others are speaking now; the conversation is taking place around me as if the one who cannot see cannot hear either. Shazza and Jack are talking quietly amongst themselves about finding supplies amongst the wreckage and whether or not there might be a chance of salvaging something useful.

The others who have moved just a bit farther from our tiny trio? They too are talking. I force myself not to glare as I hear the man Zeke telling Johns and the weasel about "the bloody cripple." There's a derisive quality to his voice not unlike that I often hear in my father's voice, and I feel a faint sense of foreboding as both the weasel and Johns seem to echo his sentiments in their responses. I hear the words "liability" and "dead weight," and that sense grows stronger.

I force myself to focus on the feeling of Shazza's hand in mine and the heat of Jack's body close to my other side. I do not want to know that they are likely to be my only allies.

I fear I will need allies.


	4. Breathing

The conversations around me have not gone on long when the question of a scouting party and looking for other survivors is raised. I find it unlikely that any but ourselves have lived through the crash, but any task might distract the others from my own less-than-welcome presence.

"We should try for higher ground," I suddenly speak up, remembering "That would give a better vantage point, would it not?" I hear a snort and a mutter along the lines of 'what vantage will the blind girl have anyway,' and I frown. It is not as if the weasel's given any input of value, now has he?

"It's worth a try at least." Shazza has again come to my rescue, or has at least seen the relative value in my suggestion. "Maybe up on the ship itself? The front nose is close enough to ground level, I think. And there'd be ladders for service purposes."

"The metal's still very hot from re-entry," I warn, thoughtfully. "You might want to wrap your hands before attempting to climb it." I feel Shazza nod, her hair brushing against my face as she does so.

"Right then. Let's try this, shall we?" She leads me back toward the ship, offering soft words of warning for placing my footsteps. Jack's hurried strides keep close to my other side, and behind me, I hear the men sullenly follow behind. Jack suddenly breaks away, scurrying forward, and then I hear a sudden metallic thud.

"Don't even need hands to get up to this level. Just jump and you're good." I cock my head at Shazza in question, and she answers with a laugh.

"Little brat just took off and hurdled up there. I'm too old to keep up with that bloody foolishness." I chuckle a bit as well. I'm undoubtedly younger than Shazza, but dear Jack is younger still, and apparently overly energetic and enthusiastic. "Lend me your arm, Blaire. I need a boost if I'm to manage this without burning my hands."

I plant my feet carefully and force myself not to sway when Shazza's weight suddenly bears down on my shoulder. It's only for an instant though; then the clatter and screech of boots sliding on metal tells me she's managed the first step.

"Here," she says, "hold out your hands. You can manage this level at at least." I lift my hands upwards and out toward her voice and feel her strong hands take mine. "You'll step up maybe 45 degrees. Don't have to lift your foot all the way up."

Trusting her, I follow her instructions to the letter. The step would have been as easy as she said, but for the slick soles of my slippers. I am stepping up with my second foot, when the first slides out from under and I slam to my knees, the hot metal searing through the thin linen of the several skirts I wear.

"Bloody hell, Blaire!" Shazza pulls me back up to my feet. "Those aren't exactly practical, are they?"

I all but growl in frustration.

"Not in the slightest." I step gingerly, the heat seeping a bit through the thin soles. "Never have been, never will be." I sigh and allow myself to be eased to the side, hearing the others file up behind us. "I'll stay here, Shazza. I'm not sure I trust myself on a ladder. Even with your help."

"Fair enough. 'S not like we'll be far."

I nod, trusting that she'll see it. I listen to the others climb up to a level above me, hiding a grin when the weasel and Zeke curse. I have the faintest impression some 'manly' men decided to ignore my warning about burning metal. Serves the assholes right. There is a faint breeze, and I tilt my head back and open my mouth slightly to taste the air. There is dust, not that it surprises me, and also the acrid taste of fuel and smoke. I breath in deeper, as deep as my bloody corset will let me. I let it out again with a wince and a frown. The air, beneath the other elements I've already identified, tastes stale and thin.

I hear the rustle of footsteps, and to my surprise they are below me. It is the holy man and the boys? No, there is only one pair, and I have yet to hear the older man at any real distance from his charges. I think on who else it might be, and come to the conclusion that it must be the docking pilot. I hide a sigh as she pauses for a moment beside me, and I wonder what she sees on my face. Then she is ascending the ladder beside me, and I release that faint sigh.

Owens is finally dead. Poor man, I allow myself to think, but only for a moment. The dead are not my concern now; not when my own survival is so greatly in question.

I've ignored the others for the most part as I mapped our surroundings with taste and scent and sound, but now I hear words that draw me back to their conversations.

"...one lung short..."

"Feels like I just ran or something..."

The others are having trouble breathing? Are we at some altitude then, or is the air merely lower oxygen then they are used to? I wonder if that might be the reason the air tastes so strange. I can't quite remember any that tasted so empty, but then I have led a sheltered life. I wonder for a moment at the fact that I don't notice any difficulties with my own breath, but then laugh softly to myself as I breath a bit too deeply again and feel the corset forcing the breath right back out. I've lived in corsets most of my life now; damned if I've ever really known what it is to truly breathe easily. A grin pulls at my lips. Would anyone guess that this blasted garment might be a help to me now? I might not breathe well, but at least I'm more accustomed to such a trial than the others in our party.

We'll have to figure out something if we end up staying too long though. At least for Shazza and Jack; the thought of either of them fainting from a lack of oxygen is not one I'm comfortable with.

I draw my attention back to the discussion above me and grimace, not bothering to hide it this time as I now know their focus is on the docking caption. On Frye, our "savior." The thought makes me ill, as does the sound of my two allies all but fawning over Frye above me. How can they not know what she's tried? I bite my lip, knowing really that there's no way they could have heard the conversation that I had in the midst of the crash. No, there was no way they could possibly have picked out the real meaning in Owens' cries.

There's the faint grunt of disgust from above me, as if someone else is as unimpressed by the display as I am. The voice mutters softly under their breath, and I recognize Johns' liquid drawl. There's only a few words audible in his almost silent rant, but they're enough to tell me that he's not nearly as sure of the skill of our pilot as the others. It's odd to consider that this man whom I already greatly dislike might have something in common with me. It's hardly a flattering picture of my opinion of Frye, but so be it. That opinion is unlikely to change.

Frye makes some soft excuse about needing to back inside to check the craft or communications or some such blather, and then her footsteps come skidding back down the ladder beside me then clanking back off the hull and thudding down onto the sand. Good riddance, I think. Poor little coward can't face their gratitude, as well she shouldn't, in my opinion.

Oddly enough, the heavy sound of boots and scent of medicine and gun oil tells me Johns is the first to follow the woman he's been so recently disgusted with. I wonder at his motives as he passes me by with another "caring" stroke of his hand down my shoulder. Ick. Have I not been through enough without attracting a bastard's attention. Some of my disdain must have flickered across my face, because he chuckles darkly.

"'Scuse me, miss." I keep perfectly still and serene. Damned if I want to give him another sign that I do not welcome his presence. I daresay that will only encourage someone like him. He chuckles again, and then his footsteps follow in the direction of the docking pilot. I listen to him leave and feel a sneer creeping onto my face. _She_ might actually deserve him.

The others follow only moments later, the more mundane need for water finally moving them to begin searching for some sort of liquid among the wreckage. The weasel bursts into his own praise regarding the fact that he has several bottles of wine and spirits to "share," for a small fee of course, or so I assume from the tone of his smarmy words. Not that spirits are going to help us, considering the fact that they actually dehydrate the body even more. Bloody idiot.

I try to bring up that little fact but it seems our fearless leaders aren't interested in hearing it. Johns' snide voice has reappeared with Frye's uncertain tones trailing behind him. Between them, they make it all too clear that my input is hardly worth listening to. After all, what experience do I have with desert survival? Book learning is of next to no worth; don't worry my pretty head. They'll take care of everything, of course. Shazza pats my shoulder in a comforting gesture, or so I assume it is meant to be.

"Don't mind them, bastards." She pulls me along after their voices anyway though, and we step up again into the faint coolness of some sort of shadow. "Looks like some of our effects actually made it down here in one piece."

"Hmm?" I ask, finally, after I wait a moment to see if she'll go on without me asking.

"What? Oh right, sorry." She patted my shoulder again, but this time in my annoyance, I am tempted to bite her bloody hand off. "This section of the cargo's nearly completely intact. Upside down, so I imagine searching will take some time. But it's all here."

Her words trigger something, a wisp of a thought that vanishes as a tall form trailing sweeping fabric and the scent of incense brushes carefully by.

"Excuse me, child." The holy man has entered behind me, I realize. He takes only a few steps and then I hear Frye say something about to him, though I can't make it out over the sound of the boys trailing into the container behind us.

"You do realize there's no water," Johns' voice is louder, and unmistakable.

"Allah will provide." He edges back out past Shazza and I, and I feel her begin to draw me along with him when I stop short, my hand reaching out to grip the wall to catch myself.

"Where.. I might just but... Frye!" I turn and call back into the cargo hold, then turn and make my way further inside carefully. I almost shrug off Shazza's hand, but think better of it; John's and Frye's voices sound below slightly. I don't want to chance faltering head over heels before I can ask my question. "Frye?"

"What, Blaire?" Nice of Johns to answer for her, I think with a grimace.

"Which hold was my trunk in? Is it this one?" I asked, hardly able to keep the excitement out of my voice. Again it is Johns who answers.

"Oh for the love of... We're not going to hunt around so you can find your shit. We've got better things to do." I hear his storm up a ladder and then his hand is on my arm, and trying to pull me practically off my feet.

"Hey, watch it! You'll knock her over like that!" Shazza pulls me back, and for a moment, I feel akin to a rag doll. "Cut it out!" His hand tightens to the point of pain for just an instant and then he shoves me away.

"Keep her the fuck out of my way, you hear me." He doesn't wait for our response, and I am not at all sorry to see him go.

"Shit. What the hell was that all about?" Frye's voice is dripping with irritation, and for once I agree with her. She ascends up to our level, and then strides quickly too us. "Alright, what exactly did you need anyway?"

The aggravation is still there is her voice, but this time I can't blame her. With everything she's going through, plus the pile of guilt from Owens' death, she isn't likely to be in the best of moods. Hopefully, I'll relieve at least a little of that. I don't bother to waste time in answering.

"I think I have water bottles in my trunk. At least a couple." Shazza's whoop tells me at least one of them is relieved.

"Only a couple?" I can hold back a snort.

"Well, I wasn't packing for an alien desert planet now was I? I only tossed in a few bottles in case I had a hard time acclimatizing when I reached my destination." Or in case my mystery husband enjoyed drugging his wives, not that I'm mentioning that. "But even a couples better than none at all, especially if the … the man-"

"Imam," Shazza supplied.

"Especially if Imam and the boys can't drink anything else." I hear a low breath.

"You're right." Of course I'm right. Idiot. "We should try to find your trunk, then. It should be in this container, thank God. Umm, I don't remember which... What's it look like?" I force myself not to groan in sheer frustration, but answer anyway as best I can.

"Well, as far as color, I can't help you. But I was told it's in the style of an old fashioned steamer trunk. Imitation wood with metal bands, I think? Oh and my name is on it... in Braille."

Shazza smothers a laugh just a moment too late to hide it from me, and I allow a faintly superior smirk to grace my lips. I'm about to ask if Shazza or Jack can be the ones to help me "look" when the violent sound of Johns' shouting at the top of our lungs stops us all cold.

"Son of a bitch. Everyone back to the ship. Now! Get the hell inside now!"

Shazza grips my hand tight in her's and then takes off at a near run, with me keeping pace as best I can. Even when I do stumble, I don't fall; her hand is strong enough to keep me on my feet. We skid up onto the metal grating of the ship, both panting for breath, and I am finally understanding the pain the others were apparently undergoing with their breathing before. I fear I am close to passing out. Corsets are _not_ designed to be athletic clothing. I brace myself on a wall, and feel Shazza leaning down to her knees beside me. Jack skims by to duck close on my other side, the quick light footsteps giving the street rat away.

"What is it, Johns? What is wrong?" Imam's strong voice has a way of soothing, I find. Or at least I am momentarily calmed by it. Only for a moment though, for then Johns speaks and reveals that we are in even more danger than before.

"Riddick's escaped."


	5. Preparation

The news has the effect Johns probably hoped for. There are gasps of horror and muttered curses peppering the air around me. For the moment, the tension amongst us is forgotten, or at least, the others have forgotten. I know all too well that I don't have the luxury of forgetting my precarious position for even a moment.

There's a physical threat now; something to hunt and stalk. A predator that some of the others might think to placate with an easy kill. Of course, if they actually have that mind set, they hardly understand the predator's mind. The man Johns is describing would prefer a challenge, I think. Whatever this 'Riddick' is planning, I doubt it will be what anyone is expecting. That just seems too easy.

As if suddenly remembering, the weasel suddenly reveals he's lugged some sort of weaponry along with his booze, and I hear his footsteps hurrying back off the ship in search of them. I muse idly that him going alone is probably not the safest route, but damned if I'm going to remind anyone of his safety. Either Riddick will kick his ass, or he'll come back with a little more in the way of protection for the rest of us. It's a win-win situation for me either way. I wonder if that makes me heartless; probably, but he, like Johns and our dear 'savior' Frye, has yet to even attempt to care about my own fate.

Now, if Shazza or Jack were wandering about on their own, I might casually suggest that they break into pairs or groups. Beyond those two however, I can't bring myself to care. I do feel mildly guilty about dismissing the holy man and his boys from my concern, but they, at least, seem careful to keep close to each other, their exotic voices almost always concentrated in a single place. It's a bit of common sense that I can appreciate.

The weasel returns far more quickly than I'd expected; perhaps, he realized that he was out alone and oh so terribly unprotected. It seems more likely to me that instead, he simply knew precisely where those weapons were after searching the container for the alcohol. He stumbles past me, his steps far heavier now. He must have carried back far more than I would expect him to be capable of. Regardless, judging from the derision in Zeke's voice as the weasel, _Paris_ I remind myself, not that I really care, clattered by, the weapons are hardly what we would normally think of. A blow dart pipe... ceremonial war spears... I snort slightly. Just how close does he think we should let Riddick come? It's sheer lunacy, like the old adage of "Never bring a knife to a gun battle." Basic self defense warns that you kill a predator from a distance; you _never_ let them get close enough to touch. Then it's all over.

Apparently, Paris is a bit offended by our lack of faith in his arsenal and seeks to change the subject.

"What's the point? If the man's gone, he's gone. Why would he even come back?" I shake my head. Does he really think Riddick's got anywhere else to go? Johns answers the weasel man, even as I am opening my mouth to do so.

"Maybe to take what you've got. Maybe to work your nerves." His voice becomes louder for a moment, as if he's turned to look in my direction. "And maybe he'll just come back and skull fuck you in your sleep."

"Sounds like a charmer," Shazza sneers in my ear.

"Which one?" I quip back, and she rewards me with a laugh. Jack has missed the joke and nudges between us, trying to ferret it out of Shazza or I but we refuse just for fun. Fun, is this really a moment of joy? How strange.

The moment is swept away as Frye suddenly speaks up in a tone that she probably intends to sound commanding and confident, but that only sounds pitiful and almost childlike to _my_ ears. As if we were children who'd already forgotten our responsibilities, she reminds us all that we need to search for water and food.

"Now Blaire thinks she has some water in her things, but it might take a while to find in the container, and anyway there's not enough to go around." Zeke and the weasel begin to mutter at her words, but I ignore them. "That said, we'll still need to send out a scouting party to look for more."

"They'll have to be careful in this heat and low oxygen levels." I say absently, this time loudly enough for more than the pair at my side to hear.

"Yeah, no shit. Nice to know you care, Princess, but it's not like you'll be the one searching." Oh Johns, I thought, always ready with that chip on your shoulder. "Wouldn't want to test your delicate constitution"

I daresay I'm nowhere near as delicate as he thinks. I refuse to be. He is right about one thing, though: I'm bloody useless in a scouting party. Shazza tensing beside me lets me know she's about to speak too.

"We shouldn't all go, should we? Not and leave Riddick the run of the place here." She has a point. I haven't even thought through that much. "Maybe half of us go and half of us stay? There's certainly things to do around here."

"Like what exactly?" Paris seems a bit perturbed at the thought that he might actually need to work, and I hear Jack mutters a crack about the lazy ass, and I softly grin. Shazza makes no indication that she's heard. I guess she merely ignores us both.

"Burial detail for one." There's more than a few groans of disgust at that, but she's right. Granted, I might have suggested saving one or two of the more intact bodies in the ship's cooler or a cryo chamber. There's no telling how long we'll be here; food might end up being as much of an issue as water. Still I know better than to bring up _that_ suggestion. Shazza goes on speaking. "In this heat, those will spoil quickly. We don't need the smell adding to the rest of the discomfort. About the low oxygen though... I think I might be able to rig up some breather units."

Well done Shazza, I think. Looks like my ally is going to come in even more handy than I'd guessed. It's so nice to have talented friends. I flash a smile in her direction. The others are adding their gratitude, as well, and Frye takes that moment to re-take the spotlight as it were.

"Alright, that sounds like a plan. Shazza, let's get the breather units done first – those of us in the scouting party will definitely need them. Imam, you and the boys, and me, and Johns?" There is a pause, and I guess she was waiting for some visual confirmation. "We'll make up the scouting party The rest of you'll stay here. Zeke, can you handle the burials?" Zeke curses, but he must have nodded because Frye thanks him quietly. "Beyond that, all of you will need to keep an eye out for  
Riddick."

"I can see about patching some of the holes in the container wall, as well. We'll want a secure place to sleep with him on the loose." Again, Shazza is quick with an intelligent suggestion. It makes me wonder just what she and Zeke have been doing on those frontier planets. Is crash landing on an alien planet really that similar? Apparently so. Frye gives her approval of Shazza's plan, not that I think Shazza needs such permission. From what I know thus far of my new friend, she would have simply gone about her business without a care for what those in authority said. It seems like that habit might be what has caused her to end up as a Free Settler, frankly.

"Come on, both of you," Shazza says, bustling Jack and I deeper into the ship. "I could use some help carrying the supplies for the breather units. If I can find 'em, anyway." I nod, allowing her to lead me on. It is the smallest way I could be useful, but at least it is some semblance of a task. Shazza apparently finds what she is looking for fairly quickly, for suddenly she releases my arm, and begins handing me what feels like lengths of tubing. There's a fair amount of the stuff, and I coil the various lengths up into bundles and drape them about my shoulders and neck like jewelry. Better that than chancing I might loose grip on the things or tangle them into some mess of knots. One of my tutors had thought she could teach me to knit by touch. I prefer not to come close to repeating the nightmare _that_ had turned into.

"Got them, Blaire?" I make sure that I do and nod. "Good. Jack, take these. Do _not_ drop them. They're breakable, and we don't have many of them." I hear a faint tinkling of glass or very hard plastic then Jack's voice.

"Got 'em, Shazza."

"Good, good. Let's head back. Blaire can you manage with just my voice to follow? I've got my hands full with these." I carefully maneuver one hand free, and then lift it out to brush the wall.

"Yeah, I'm fine." She tells us to follow, and after allowing Jack's light steps to pass me, I step off after them, my hand on the wall my only real guide. Shazza leads us back outside. It is slightly cooler now. "Is the sun setting?" I asked, as Shazza and a slightly rougher pair of hands removed the tubing from my arms and shoulders.

"It's 2 suns. Not just the one." Zeke answers me, his voice annoyed, I guess, at my presence. I'm not worried about that; I am really more intrigued by what he's revealed.

2 suns? There aren't many worlds that can support life with multiple suns. It might narrow down our location... assuming there was any way for us to send out that information. That thought isn't one I want to dwell on, but I can't seem to shake it. We're alone here, and that isn't likely to change. My dark thoughts keep me busy as the sounds of clanking metal and bustling footsteps flow around me. Time passes, though I don't know how much, and then I feel a length of tubing laid over my head.

"Here, hold this," Shazza says, and her hand presses something into my hand. "Breathe in with this end." I lift the tube to my mouth and suck in a gasp of oxygen. "Is it working?"

"Yes, it's working fine, thank you Shazza!" She pats my shoulder, and I hear Jack testing the other breather units. From the sound of those deep breaths, the units seem to be working well.

Frye appears almost a moment later and reminds us that she wants to begin searching before nightfall while it's cooler. It's the right decision, but it doesn't end up being one we can actually bother with. Paris runs up, and for once, it seems he has useful information. Not information we truly _want_ to learn, but useful none the less.

"3 suns?" Jack's voice holds the same incredulity that I, and likely everyone else, is feeling. I drop my head and groan. Is anything else going to go wrong, I wonder?

"We take this as a good sign." Imam's voice is surprisingly jovial. "Blue sun, blue water."

"Think there's any reason I'm an atheist?" Zeke quips and startles a laugh out of me. He's got a good point, after all.

"Bit of a bad sign. That's Riddick's direction," Johns warns. Frye apparently doesn't understand the predator mind; she actually believed Riddick's ruse. Johns explains impatiently, and then I hear him tell Zeke something about warning shots. It probably says something about my inherent trust issues that I can't feel all that safe with Zeke having the only other gun. This should be fun.


	6. Secrets

The scouting party sets off without much further ado, and Jack pulls me into motion again before they are even out of earshot.

"Come on, lets go! I bet we find your trunk before they get back." I agree wholeheartedly: if my trunk is in fact in that compartment, we have a finite area to search. The others have a much _much_ larger area to cover. With luck, Johns might be gone for hours. Of course, that would mean our main 'protector' will be out of reach if Riddick attacks... I shake off the thought and allow Jack to drag me back across the rough terrain to the metal floors of the container. "There's a ladder down. Can you make it Blaire?"

"If you can get me to the top and tell me how many steps down I have to go."

"Cool, can do." I follow Jack's lead across the grating and to a slanted railing. "'K, here's the edge, need help turning around?" I shake my head, and Jack continues. "There's 1, 2, 3... 9 steps total?"

"You're sure?"

"Yes, 9, I'm sure!" I smile in Jack's general direction and settle my hands carefully onto the railing then turn my back to the ladder carefully. Once there, I reach carefully across to find the second railing on the other side. Then, after a deep breath to steady myself, I carefully ease back to find the first step, then the second and so on, sliding my hands down the first step when it was finally in reach. In that slow fashion, I make my way down the the ladder to the metal floor below. I step out of the way and hear Jack scrambling down behind me, as much falling as truly climbing down the ladder. I half cringe until I hear the dual thump of both of Jack's feet finally safely hitting the floor. It would be a horror if the young scamp fell and broke an ankle at this point of our mission. I will have enough trouble pulling myself back up the ladder, let alone hauling another wounded body with me.

Jack has all but lunged into the search as I stand woolgathering, and with one last thought to hope the kid doesn't injure something, I begin my own careful search, trailing fingertips over each item I encounter, waiting for the familiar textures of my trunk to slide beneath my hands. Times passes in a silence on my part broken occasionally by the rustles, clatters, and curses that radiate from Jack's side of the compartment. I shake my head at the street rat's antics and simply continue on, covering inches while Jack likely covers yards in a single bound.

The search takes far less time than I expect, before a whoop of excitement and a terrifying clatter that sounds like some dozens of large objects falling to the ground tells me Jack has apparently found something.

"Blaire! I think I got it. Blaire!" Jack calls again, as if I've missed the shout the first time. I pick my way carefully toward the voice, trying not to stumble over the piles scattered haphazardly across the floor in my path. I reach out as I near what I guess to be Jack's location, and sure enough my hand is taken and I am guided the last few feet until my hand is lowered against the trunk which I find feels familiar under my hands. I run my fingertips across the surface, noting the shifts from smooth metal to the faint texture of imitation wood. It certainly feels like my trunk, but there is only one way to know for sure.

"Jack is there a metal plaque... like an address or name plate?" I ask, and there is a pause and I hear a thud as if the trunk has been rolled backwards.

"Umm. Yeah, here! It was upside down. Here, right here." Jack draws my hand down again, and I can feel the raised bumps that made up Braille lettering. I let a giddy laugh. _Finally,_ something seems to be going right, I think, and quickly I input my personal code into the pad just below the address to unlock the trunk. "Wow, high tech huh?"

"The best my aggravating father could buy." I lift the lid and smile to myself as the familiar scent of asters from the sachet tucked between my clothing reaches my nose. New clothes, thank all that was holy. But first, I remind myself, we do have other priorities. I open one of the inner compartments and hear Jack's whoop at what I've revealed.

"Four bottles! That was more than I expected." I feel myself shoved aside and Jack's form slides by me, reaching into the trunk. "They're big ones too..."

"Well what did you expect, dinky little shuttle line bottles? Those would hardly do any good." I reach in and brush my fingertips across the lids of the bottles as if to reassure myself of Jack's count. "These, though, these might actually last if we're careful. Now," I whisper to myself, "where did I put those boots..."

I kneel to flip through the contents of the trunk pulling out a set of trousers, then a thin but long sleeved blouse to keep me cool and protect my easily-to-burn skin and a set of underthings far more practical than the corset and bloomers I currently wore. Jack hovers closely beside me, and I tilt my head as a faint scent reaches me. I hesitate, then search back through the trunk for a specific bag and box, then pull out a few of the items there in and hold them out to where Jack stands beside me. There is a moment of shocked silence, and I frown and shake my head.

"I'm not trying to embarrass you, Jack. I can tell you've started your period, alright. Nothing to be ashamed of, but these will certainly be more comfortable than going without, right?" I wave the tampon and pad in Jack's direction again and am shocked to hear a whimper.

"I'm... I'm a guy. I'm a.. how did you... you can't tell, Blaire, you can't tell them I-"

"Jack, oh honey..." I trail off as I stand and gather the young woman into a tentative embrace. The poor thing. How could I have known she had masqueraded as a boy? Her voice is clearly that of a woman, a young woman true, but the light alto is not one that a boy might match. And a boy would not have kept so close to a pair of women, or so I would normally assume. I have known few boys in my life after all; I suppose I might have been wrong in another situation. Not here though, I think as I hug the shuddering form again. "I won't tell. I swear it, alright. It's our secret; none of the others need to know." I manage a smile as I feel Jack nod into my shoulder. "You might tell Shazza though. Don't you think?" I ask carefully, wanting her to agree. I would prefer not to carry her secret on my own, and Shazza had certainly proven to be an excellent ally thus far.

"OK, OK I'll tell her." I breathe a sign of relief and release her. "So, so what now?"

"Well, you need to get your little issue taken care of, and I need to get changed." I pause and consider. "You might want to leave before I change, or else your ruse might not work so well."

"'K. Got any extra of those?" she asks, and I nod toward my trunk.

"Take what you need." I hear her scramble about in the trunk and then she clasped my hand again.

"I'll go help Shazza, I guess. She'll probably be working on this next. Will you be alright to change and get back up the ladder?"

"I think so. Just tell me how far I am from the ladder now and I should be fine." Jack turned me to face away from the trunk.

"OK, the ladder is straight ahead from here, and I'll make sure you've got a path. It's..." I hear her step off purposefully, counting under her breath. "It's 14 steps to the ladder. Just yell if you need me."

"I will." I wait until I hear the scramble of Jack clambering back up the ladder, and then I begin the arduous task of disrobing. First is the high necked and lace trimmed blouse with what seems like hundreds of buttons up the front and cuffs. The skirts at least are easy enough to unfasten and I allow them to drop to the metal grating, slipping off my shoes as well. Then, bloody hell, then I have to get my way out of the corset. With the laces located in the back, I realize it might have been wiser to ask for Jack's help after all, but so be it. I contort my arms behind me and untie then loosen the laces one agonizing pair at a time until finally the bloody thing is loose enough for me to slide off. I let it drop down my body to my feet and breathe deep, grateful for the freedom. I lean down and shimmy out of the bloomers that covered me from waist to knee, then feel around for the bundle of clothing I had retrieved from the trunk. I locate the more serviceable panties and slip them on, followed by the trousers one careful leg at a time.

I startle as a soft sound breaks the silence that has hung about the cargo area since Jack left, and I straighten sharply, my arms crossing over my breasts. The sound comes again from somewhere in the depths around me and I begin to shake as I recognize it as the almost imperceptible sound of someone breathing. There is someone else down here, and they were either here before Jack and I, or they have somehow slipped in without being seen. I think of Shazza's warnings about the secure container, and I shudder without being able to stop myself. Someone is here and has clearly been watching me. I hug my arms even tighter too my chest and the intruder lets out a soft chuckle, rough with amusement and desire. I suppress a shriek at both the sound and its nearness. The stranger has moved to stand just behind me without my ever hearing a sound. The warmth of a body radiates onto my back and with that heat and the strength of the scent I inhale, I know the intruder stands just behind me.

"You won't turn to look? Interesting." The voice is male and deep, and I fight back a sob at the sound. I have tried to ignore the familiarity of his scent, but the voice doesn't lie. It is _not_ that of one of the other survivors, and there is only one person who it might be. I want to call out for help, but a whisper in my ear stops me before I can utter a sound. "You going to scream? Bring your little friends to save you? It's only the two of them upstairs. They're the only ones who could hear you." The voice is moving from my left shoulder to my right, and I clutch my sides as lips brush my ears as it does so. My mind races, considering what Riddick, for it must be Riddick, has said. Only Jack and Shazza to hear, only my two friends to come here to face _him,_ a murderer who clearly even intimidates the bastard Johns. Riddick chuckles again, and then agrees with my unspoken musings. "I don't think you want them to risk that, do you?"

A hand ghosts down my bare spine, and I actually do whimper this time, unable to force the sound back down my throat. All I accomplish is to halt the hand just above the waist of my trousers.

"So you are afraid. I thought you might be." I try to find the courage to answer, to dredge up some smart remark for the occasion, but I find I am too afraid to speak. He merely chuckles again. "I should thank you for the show; it was a little short for my taste, but certainly entertaining. Don't worry; it'll be our little secret. Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation." He nuzzles into my neck and I shake as it brings a wave of his scent sweeping over me, every bit as overwhelming as the press of his solidly muscled bulk behind me. "I have to go now, Princess. Things to do and all." My knees almost buckle with relief as he pulls away, but I lock them, still unwilling to let my guard down. "Don't worry, I will find you later."

I hold myself rigid for several long moments, scenting the air for any sign of him, before I can convince myself the murderer has really left, or at least intends not to fuck with me any longer. I then all but lunge for the rest of my clothing, yanking on the brassiere and blouse without a care for grace. I feel hastily around in the trunk again until I find my flexible flat-soled boots and yank those on too, fumbling only a moment to match the right boot to the proper foot. I snatch a canvas rucksack from yet another compartment of the trunk and then load the water bottles in and heave the bag onto my back.

I am still shaking and trembling with fear, and I curse the bastard for playing this hideous game with me. If he wanted to harm me, why didn't he just do it already? Didn't his mother ever tell him not to play with his victims? It's just bloody cruel is what it is, I think furiously. I step off only to realize I've lost my proper bearing to the ladder, and I have to forcibly calm myself before I can re-align to the position Jack had shown me and then take the 14 near painful steps until my hands reach the ladder that leads to Shazza and Jack and the relative safety of their company. Only relative, I know all too well now.

If Riddick comes for me... They can hardly stop him.


	7. Breaking

I nearly tumble back down the stairs as I climb frantically with far too little care for what I am doing. The panic I've fought off since my ears first warned me the crash was happening has finally broken through my control, and my hands shake as I manage to pull myself to the top and onto the metal grating. I am crying, though I scarcely know it, and I gasp out Shazza's name as I founder for the wall.

"Shazza... Sha.. Shazza? Where are you?" I cringe at the helpless sound of my voice, but I cannot help it. I am marked, at the best as an amusing target to taunt, at worst as a toy to play with and discard. I can't stand this! My breath comes out in gasps as I cling to the metal of the wall, trying desperately to ground myself and figure out which direction to go in. I give in and dissolve into sobs, tears pouring down my face and my nose running. Unfortunately, all it does is just disorient me more: my sense of smell taken out of commission and my ears filled with my own keening. "Shazza? Jack... Please..."

I shuffle deeper into the container or what I think must be deeper by the lack of heat against my skin. Shazza should be in here... she _told_ me she'd be in here! I grip harder to the walls and find myself crying out now as I stumble over something in my way. "Shazza!"

Hands grab mine and I shriek. "No don't! Don-"

"Blaire! Blaire, easy. It's me... It's me." It's Shazza, and I sob again in relief, falling into her strong arms as my knees go weak completely.

"Blaire, you OK? Hey, Blaire... what happened? Shazza what's wrong with her?" Jack, Jack is here too, and I loose one hand to reach out and clutch her close to the pair of us. Together, we're safer together. Please god let us be safer together. The women hold me carefully while I sob myself out, sheltered emotionally as well as physically, at least for the moment. It's over quickly; and I realize perhaps, that my panic may have truly been more to do with a fear of being alone, than a fear of Riddick himself. I shudder as the sobs slow and finally halt. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, not caring for manners in the face of my emotionally draining little crying jag. Shazza wipes at the tears that still trickled beneath my glasses and then rests her hands on my shoulders. Jack weasels her way under the arm I've given her, hugging more than merely clutching my hand now. I take a deep shaking breath in and out and then another, finally calming my body back to stillness.

"Blaire, you alright?" Shazza asks quietly, and I shake my head with a hoarse laugh. "What happened?"

"Riddick. He was here, down.. down in the cargo bay." I shake my head again, this time with less strength and no hint at mirth. "While I changed." I lick my lips absently, mouth suddenly drier than in the instant before. "He watched." Shazza curses viciously under her breath, and I thoroughly second her opinion. "He even thanked me for the bloody show."

"Did he hurt you, Blaire?" Jack asks, and I hear just a hint of guilt in her nearly imperceptible words. I hug her closer and shake my head. It's _not_ her fault, but I can tell she's blaming herself for leaving me alone down there.

"No, just... just teased me a bit. To show he could, I suppose."

"Fucking charmer," Shazza breathes bitterly, and I feel her shake her head in an echo of my own movement. "That's it then; neither of you wander off alone until the bastard's back in chains." She releases me carefully and slides the pack off of my shoulders and hefts it with a faint huff at the unexpected weight. "I guess you found what we needed at least. Come on then, we're working down this way."

Jack chooses to lead me this time, and I wonder if her proximity is due to my recent knowledge of her gender or fear of our neighborhood murder, or a combination of the two. It doesn't matter too terribly much to me; I like the little scamp, and it's been a very long time since anyone cared to stick so close to me. Since I was just a child, really, I realize now that I think of it. I lean into the young girl, enjoying the feeling of friendship, of... of _kinship_ I decide. We're alike, I think, more alike than anyone might guess two young women of our separate social statuses and age might be. Even _I_ can't put my finger on why I suddenly decide this, of what detail about the scamp convinces me that she's _mine_ , but there's no doubt in my mind that it is true. It's something in the scent of her perhaps, or the timbre of her voice, but the connection is undeniable. I decide then, as she leads me after Shazza, that I will do everything in my power to assure Jack's survival. I have no idea how I might accomplish it, but I will. I must.

"Here. Jack be careful of the torch; make sure Blaire stays clear." I sigh at Shazza's words; they're a sharp reminder of the fact that I can barely keep myself safe, let alone Jack. "Here, you think you can hold this for me while I tend to this?" Shazza carefully hands me back my bag, and I slip it back onto my shoulders.

"Did you get a bottle out?" I ask quietly.

"No, I'll wait a bit for that. Need to save it as long as possible." Trust Shazza to push her own comfort down as long as possible. I nod and lean against the wall as directed by Jack's gentle hands. There's a pop-hiss and a flash of heat, and I guess Shazza has fired up the torch to continue the patch job my hysterics have interrupted. We stand this way for some time, as Shazza works without pausing. The only break in our companionable silence comes from Shazza's occasional muttered instructions to her young assistant and Jack's questions or comments in response.

I am left to my own thoughts, and I find I am not precisely comfortable with that. At the forefront of my mind is the encounter between the convict and myself. He frightens me, has deliberately frightened me, but as much as I wish to hate the bastard, he _hasn't_ harmed me. Hell, if I am honest with myself, his little touches were practically gentle. There literally had been nothing that might cause me pain. The intimidation, the control he'd had over me had been solely to do with what he _could_ do instead of what he'd actually done. He'd shown more control than most men might considering my state of undress. Many "better" men, or at least men with less of a rap sheet, would have at least copped an actual feel and some might have forced themselves on me without thinking twice. I shy away from the implications of my thoughts. I don't want to know the answers to the questions I'll ask myself next. It's just safer for my sanity not to, I muse.

Of course, that doesn't exactly stop my train of thought. A respectable ship company like the one that owned _Hunter-Gratzner_ would never have allowed a chained passenger without checking out the story of the person holding the leash. Slavery is still illegal on most worlds I know of, and the penalties for aiding and abetting a slaver are vicious. The port and shipping company would not have been able to allow any chance that such a passenger might be a slave. No, they would have checked Johns' credentials and Riddick's _lack_ thereof before ever allowing the pair on board.

Whether or not Johns is actually the authority he implies he is (and I am not totally convinced that he is), the fact remains that Riddick _is_ a convict. Once upon a time, he did something to earn that status, and to have earned a bit or gag, whichever it was that forced the silence I remember from our departure, he must have done something truly violent. He is dangerous, I remind myself fiercely. I cannot allow myself to doubt that. Not and keep my limited sanity.

A metallic thunk jerks me out of my musing, and I straighten, trying to pick out the sounds over the hiss of the torch. I am opening my mouth to ask Shazza to turn it off for a moment, but I'm beaten to the punch by Paris's arrival.

"Tell me that was you just now..." He asks, and I wonder who he's accusing. Shazza answers my mental question unintentionally.

"What are you going on about? He's been right here with me the whole time..." She breaks off as yet another clank is suddenly heard, much louder than the one I'd heard first. Jack shoves by me to the outer wall, and then turns suddenly. It is only the fact that she's all but in my ear that allows me to hear the imperceptible sound of the word "Riddick" fall from her lips. I doubt the other's have heard it at all, but from the sudden complete silence that falls, I guess they at least have read her lips.

Shazza carefully sets the torch down, and I am impressed by her quiet. I catch her sent as she passes by me, and then Jack wraps her hand around mine and leads me after her. I am as careful as I can be to keep my footsteps utterly soundless. It is only slightly more difficult in the flat-soled boots I've retrieved from my trunk than it would have been in the thin slippers I'd worn before. Jack is almost as quiet as Shazza and I, and though Paris's steps seem painfully loud in comparison, I have to grudgingly admit he has some talent for sneaking around as well.

We ease toward the entrance to the container, keeping pace with the heavy footsteps I can hear just beyond the metal outer wall of the container. Those heavy steps... something about then seems off to me. I can't quite put my finger on what it is though. Then the steps stumble, and I realize what is wrong. I have yet to hear Riddick take a single step, and he has _certainly_ never moved with anything but predatory grace.

"Shazza wait-"

"No!" Jack shouts, and I fear my warning is too late and Shazza has struck some unsuspecting stranger. Jack and Paris's deep sighs of relief tells me otherwise, and I sigh too as the stranger, a man judging by his voice, begins to speak.

"Thank god! I thought the only one who got out-" A shot and then another rips through the calm with a pair of foreboding cracks. The scent of blood is suddenly having in the air, heavy enough that I can all but taste it. There is a horrified silence, and then Jack explodes with recriminations and helpless anger.

"Crikey.. I thought it was him!" Zeke, I realize, Zeke has shot a man who'd likely been even more terrified than we were. At least the poor sap had never seen it coming, I thought with a bitter taste in my mouth. "Shazza... Shaz, you OK?"

I cringe at his question and hope he hasn't bloody shot my friend. I realize it isn't likely; she is his wife, after all. I cringe again as I realize that fact is likely why the man was shot. In love and war, there are no rules: Zeke willing shot first and asked questions only after to protect _his_ love. It is an admirable sentiment at least, though I daresay the corpse on the ground somewhere in front of me wouldn't agree.

"I'm alright, Zeke. I'm alright." Shazza has finally spoken, her voice rough and shaking though I can tell from the steel underneath that she's trying to keep it together, likely for Zeke and Jack, who's still babbling slightly under her breath in shock. "I... I'll be fine. Just need to clean up."

"That's a bloody understatement," Paris mutters under his breath beside me, and I have to force myself not to ram my elbow into him.

"You... You'll need to take him with the others, love," Shazza says quietly, and I hear Zeke curse under his breath though he doesn't argue. After amount, I hear a grunt of effort, and then the scraping of something being dragged over sand and stone.

"Least we can offer the poor sod," Paris says, and I suppose I grudgingly agree with him. The man is dead and Zeke can bury him. That's about all any of us can do though; had he lived... Well that would have certainly changed the landscape a bit, but now we are simply back where we started before Paris heard him approaching. I shake off the morbid thinking and ease my way carefully around Paris to where I'd heard Shazza's voice. The scent of blood is thicker here, and I imagine there's likely to be quite a puddle of blood on the metal and sand. I debate on stepping closer, but decide not to chance the likelihood that I might slip in the mess and go crashing to the ground. Instead, I just reach out my hand until I brush against her arm to grip her elbow, comfortingly or so I hope.

"You alright?" I ask quietly, knowing that now that Zeke is gone she might be a bit more honest in her answer. "Think you might give yourself that water break now?"

She laughs mirthlessly and I took that to be as close to a yes as I am likely to get. I slip the bag around my shoulder, pull out one of the bottles of water and offer it to her, ignoring Paris's sudden gasp of interest. I feel the bottle taken from my hand, and then the clicking of the cap being twisted off. I am surprised then to hear the slight plinking sound of water dripping onto the metal grating instead of Shazza swallowing.

"Jack, you got a bandana or rag I can borrow?" she asks, and I wonder just what has happened to my friend.

I'm likely to keep wondering. Friend though she might be, I somehow doubt I'll receive an answer from the resilient woman any time soon.


	8. Confrontation

The water bottle is finally placed back in my hand, only slighter lighter than it had been when I passed it on, and the scent of blood fades with the soft sound of scrubbing. I bite my tongue to keep silent as I finally realize Shazza must have blood on her person instead of merely on the ground before her. I can think of few things more unpleasant than such a sudden shower. I carefully replace the bottle in my bag with the others, Paris's obvious hovering over me making me even more cautious about securing the bag. Shazza's need had been immediate; the rest of us can wait until Imam and the boys have what they need. Especially the boys, I guess. Imam will likely put their needs before his own. I ponder that responsibility he's shown so far wondering vaguely if I might be able to shift it to Jack, Shazza, and myself if all else fails. With Shazza leading our little trio, we are hardly weak, but more allies are never unwelcome.

Shazza turns to head back into the container, and I shrug off Paris's suddenly 'helpful' grasp on the strap across my shoulder. In a move calculated to be disdainful, I reach out for Jack's hand instead, re-thinking my previous thought. _Some_ allies are decidedly unwelcome.

I take only a few steps when a strangled sound reaches my ears.

"What was…" A second cry, this time almost recognizable as Zeke's terrified voice and then gunfire shatters the silence. Shazza screams, and for the first time I hear sheer terror in her voice. She shoves back past Jack and I, knocking me off of the grate and almost to my knees on the ground as she breaks into a terrified sprint. Jack and Paris hurry after her without a pause, and I am left alone in the shade of the container. I strain to hear their footsteps scramble across the rough terrain of sand and rock, once again hating my helplessness.

Zeke's screams are abruptly cut off, and I cringe knowing Shazza's husband's life has ended with his cries. I allow myself to sink to my knees at the thought of yet another life lost in the space of so few moments. I might not have liked the bastard, but damned if I wanted him to die, for Shazza's sake if not his own.

I sink back to actually sit down, lacking the will to hold myself straight for the moment. My hands grip what I can of the ground beneath me, the rocks and sand digging into my palms before I release it again. I smooth out the two furrows I've dug, wanting something, anything to still be untouched by the madness. For a moment, I almost imagine the sand begin to tremble beneath my fingers, like the pavement on Astarte Prime sometimes did just about the Underground train stations, but then I hear Shazza shout again and my attention is drawn away by the sheer rage in her voice.

I have only a few minutes to wait wondering if anyone will remember I'm still here. Then there's sudden a cacophony approaching, Frye and Johns' voices fighting Shazza's strident tones for dominance, and the sound of pairs of footsteps now equal to the number of frightened survivors. The shots must have brought the others running, I think as the group moves closer. Johns storms by the container toward the wreck of the ship, the tread of his boots heavier than normal and a sliding sound accompanies them as if he drags something large with him. I catch a whiff of Riddick's undeniable scent as Johns passes; it seems the murder has been caught at the scene of a murder. It is strange though; I don't smell anything different on Riddick. I would think death would be a recognizable scent all its own. The rest of the group finally draws even with me, and Shazza's rough hand jerks me to my feet and drags me with them. I almost protest, but the venom in her voice as she mutters under her breath stops me. She's just seen her husband die, and I daresay I won't begrudge her a little pain. I want to ask what has happened, but don't dare to do so. Then, as I listen, I find I don't have to ask after all.

"So much blood… that animal… just sitting there with the blade… never says a word then runs like a rabbit.. bloody coward…" Even with my hearing, I can only pick out random phrases from her near-incoherent ramblings, but it's enough to give me the gist of what must have taken place. Riddick, a blade, and blood. Really how many ways can those three elements be combined after all?

But… something makes me pause in my thoughts, and then in my confusion, I speak before I think to stop myself.

"But there wasn't any blood on Riddick." Shazza slams to a halt, wrenching my arm.

"What did you bloody say?" I almost cringe at the anger in her voice, but I have opened the topic and feel I must go on.

"There wasn't any blood on Riddick, Shazza. If there was that much… I mean…" I all but stutter keeping myself from mentioning the fact that _she_ still smells more like fresh spilled blood than the murderer in our midst. "I should have been able to smell it on him, and there wasn't any."

Shazza's hand tightens for a moment and I am frightened by the sudden memory of Johns' hand on me in just this manner, but then Shazza is practically shoving me away from her.

"What the bloody hell are you on about anyway, Blaire? Spit it out already!" she snaps back at me, disgust clear in her tone. I blink back the sudden tears in my eyes and go on.

"He didn't kill Zeke. He can't have." All around me those survivors who haven't followed Johns and his burden to the ship begin to mutter much as Shazza has before, only now the target of their ire is me. As if the sound of their voices behind her is a goad, Shazza's control suddenly snaps.

"He didn't kill Zeke? He didn't fucking kill Zeke. You are full of shit!" She ends in a shout and I can't help cringing back. "You weren't there, you didn't see shit, and I don't care what your bloody nose thinks, you don't know shit!" Heavy steps suddenly storm away, and I hear only one last gripe of "Fucking useless" before the roaring in my ears pushes it away.

The others move around me like a they might catch something if they dare to touch me, and I hear their footsteps following Shazza's toward the ship. A hand on my shoulder startles me, but it's only Jack, her scent filling my nose only a moment too late.

"Shazza didn't mean it. Not really, you know that right?" Her voice is timid and I feel for the poor child suddenly trapped between the two women who have been her companions thus far. "She's just sad and- and mad, you know? It'll be alright. She just needs to cool down some."

I let her hug me awkwardly, and I murmur words of comfort and assurance absently, needing to sooth her since I cannot sooth myself. I allow her to lead me after the crowd silently, knowing she needs to keep me close more than I need to stay the hell away from the others. Especially now with a wound practically ripped into my chest at Shazza's suddenly spiteful words. I've heard them all of course, but they are so much crueler when they come from someone I'd thought to be a friend. Jack pulls me past the murmuring crowd and into the coolness that tells me we've reached the ship before my feet step onto metal grating.

"Is there somewhere out of the way that I can sit?" I ask my little guide quietly. I need a bit of solitude right now, else I will likely fall to pieces any moment. Jack doesn't answer out loud, but after a few more steps, she gently pushes me down to sit on what feels like a metal box or part of a bench against one wall. I reach to either side and am grateful to find more debris or wreckage to either side of me. It might not hide me complexly from resentful eyes, but every little bit will help. Jack stutters another awkward attempt at comfort, and then falls silent, for once out of words. I take a deep breath and begin to lean back when the bag on my shoulders gets suddenly in the way, reminding me of its presence. I maneuver it to one side and pull the three full bottles free, juggling them awkwardly in my arms before holding them out to Jack. "Here, can you get these to the others, please? I'd… I'd rather not face them just yet."

I'm ashamed of the sound of my own voice, ashamed that I have to rely on a young girl to do my own duty, but this time I cannot quite push the feelings away. I shift again, maneuvering the open bottle and my breather unit to the side to allow me to lean back just a bit more comfortably. Then I close my eyes underneath my glasses and try not to cry into the silence.

After a moment or two, I realize it isn't silent. There's a faint echo being thrown my way, as if a conversation is being spoken down a stairwell perhaps. I sit up and listen harder until the voices clarify in my mind. Johns and Riddick must be on a lower deck, just far enough away and speaking in low enough voices that I pick out the tone and rhythm of their speech, but not quite their words. Johns' drawl is sharper now, nerves bleeding into his speech, or so I guess. Riddick's voice is little more than a low thunder rolling to me. I shiver as I listen to it, some glimmer of insight flickering in my mind that I can't quite comprehend yet.

A hesitant set of footsteps comes toward me from the opening in the ship, and I recognize them to be Frye's with little effort. She passes me without seeming to notice I sit there, and in only a few strides the footsteps change to the clamor of someone descending a set of stairs. Apparently Jack has deposited me closer to those stairs than I'd guessed. Her voice joins the duo below, until with what is almost a shout, Johns suddenly leaves the conversation and ascends up the steps and passed me toward the others. I've got quite the ring side seat to all the coming and going, I muse. Frye's voice is somehow more distinct that the men, and I am able to begin to understand the conversation. I listen carefully, darkly amused to hear both fear and fascination in the tone of her words.

Jack returns to me without a word, and I wonder if she's trying to eavesdrop on the same conversation I am. I nod her in that direction, and after a brief moment, I hear her head that way. At least one of us will get to have a little fun, I think. The drone of voices continues, and I drift on the words. It's simply easier than focusing on anything else. Less painful, anyway.

Suddenly the conversation seems to shift below me, and I hear Frye order Jack to leave. After only a moment, Jack clambers up the stairs, muttering furiously under her breath in annoyance at Frye's sharp dismissal. She reaches the top and takes three jogging steps before my outstretched hand snags her sleeve from my little corner. She startles, but only for a moment. She starts to lift me to my feet, but I shake my head silently.

"How many steps?" I say, barely even a whisper escaping my lips. She's quiet for a moment, confused or so I assume, but then she leans in close to tell me 'twelve.' I smile my thanks, and she continues on down the hall without another sign that I am still seated against the wall.

I have only a few moments more to wait until Frye comes climbing up as well, her footsteps slow and sounding almost confident. It's an illusion though, or so I can tell from the quiver of her breathes and the soft scent of sweat and fear. Once she's reached the top, she breaks into a run, as if she no longer has to pretend she's not afraid. Her flight takes her past me without pause, and I know she hasn't seen me. Foolish of her, dropping her guard just because Riddick is chained below. I certainly will be keeping all of my senses alert; with Zeke's killer loose, I cannot become complacent. Especially with my strong ally keeping her distance. I shove back the hurt again, and instead listen hard to catch some of the conversation out beyond the open back of the ship. What I hear surprises me; Frye is actually going to go through with the search for Zeke's body as Riddick has suggested. Johns tries to talk her out of it with no success, and I am almost impressed that the so-far cowardly pilot is holding to her guns.

Then the searchers move out of my hearing range, and I am left alone. I wonder for a moment if Shazza even thinks to question where I am through her grief. Probably not, I decide, my lips twisting bitterly for a moment before I shove that emotion away as I had the hurt.

I have a task, now, I remind myself, one that can only be done while the others are away. I steel my nerve at the thought of facing the convict, especially after our previous interlude. Still, if I am right, he is likely to be my only hope of survival. Assuming he's willing to be convinced, of course. Any hope hinges on that very slight chance.

I take a deep breath to settle myself and then rise smoothly to my feet, turning back only to pick up the breather unit and water bottle from where they've rested beside me. I tuck the bottle back into the sack slung across my shoulder and then sling the breather unit around my shoulders, too. I pace a careful three steps to the staircase which I much prefer to the ladder. It is a steep staircase to be sure, but something I can maneuver more easily than I'd expected. I still cling to both hand rails, but at least I don't have to back down one shaking footstep at a time in front of a predator. I reach the bottom of the steps and try to mentally gauge how many steps it might be to Riddick's side. Jack's presence had distracted me from counting how long it had taken Frye to reach the stairs. No matter, I remind myself. Frye is taller than me anyway; her stride would likely have covered more distance than my own.

"Well what have we here?" Riddick unknowingly comes to my rescue, his voice offering at least a slight clue to the dimensions of the corridor. Only slight, however, as his voice is almost too rich and resonant to echo sharply. I begin to move in his direction, taking one slow step in front of the other, my right hand just barely outstretched to search for a wall. I don't find one and after a moment, I snap my fingers, needing another distance check. There, I tilt my head slightly, allowing my sensitive ears to take in the hint of sound bouncing off a metal wall not far to my right. I scoot closer to it until my fingers brush against smooth metal, and then I continue stepping toward Riddick's now silent form. I skirt gingerly around a pile of something near the wall and then suddenly, my hand brushes the links of a chain. Eureka, I think, allowing the chain the slide between my fingers. This guide, I know, will lead me directly to Riddick's person. Link by link I draw closer, the only sound between us coming from our almost imperceptible breathes. I struggle to keep mine steady as the heady male scent of him tickles my nose the closer I come, reinforcing his presence in the corridor with me. I might have committed to this path, but it didn't mean I was altogether comfortable with it. Finally, I come across the larger link that warned me of what was to come.

I gingerly reach slightly forward and encounter a large powerful hand. He held it in a fist, something I could understand. Had I been a prisoner, I'd likely have done the same, I mused. I softly traced my fingertips across battered knuckles and then the back of his hand, moving carefully down the smooth surface to the sudden interruption of the cold metal restraint around his wrist, then over it to a nearly hairless muscled forearm. I take another careful step as my questing hand reaches the softer skin of the dip of his elbow, then a twitch from Riddick startles me. Likely startles us both, I guess. I doubt Riddick has planned to reveal any reaction at all, no matter how my touch might tickle.

"Sorry," I say softly, somehow unwilling to break the silence, but feeling the apology is needed. He says nothing, so I continue my journey toward him, carefully tracing the powerful biceps up to his shoulder, stepping carefully around the bent knee I brush into before I can fall over it. I reach his neck now, and find it every bit as muscled as the rest of him. Shaking despite my resolve not to, I trace my fingers lightly up his neck to his head, brushing past his ear to his cheek and then-

"Shit!" I can't hold the curse in as my hand is suddenly caught in Riddick's bite, his teeth bearing down on the soft skin between my thumb and the rest of my palm. He hasn't broken the skin, or so I can tell from the lack of blood, but it still hurts like hell. I force myself to stay perfectly still and not jerk my hand away, knowing that retreat likely could cause him to draw blood in reaction. It was a simple lesson I'd learned from a nurse who'd been bitten by a pit trained dog: when a predator bites down, they'll only let go when they choose to. After a moment he does, and I drop my hand into the other, trying to massage away the imprint of pain that still lingers.

"Who gave you permission to touch me, hmm?" His voice is familiar now, still mocking as it was before in the container, but there's an edge of annoyance beneath it I know better than to ignore. Clearly I've crossed a line, not that I had much choice in the matter. I tell him that.

"My apologies, Mr. Riddick. I needed to know where you were." There's a beat of silence and then I feel the heat of him suddenly closer and I guess he's stood.

"That means what exactly?" His voice is overhead now, confirming my guess of his stance, and I'm struck by just how much taller he is than myself. He looms, and I wonder how I missed that in the container. I suppose it had something to do with the sheer terror I'd been feeling. Riddick shifts slightly, and I realize silence has lapsed again without any answer from me. I think for a moment of how to reveal my disability, but choose to be blunt as I usually am about it.

"I'm blind." There's a snort of amusement from above me and then Riddick seats himself again with a faint rattle of the chains.

"You're serious?" His tone is amused again, and I sigh impatiently at the familiar question. I open my mouth to say something cutting, but he breaks in abruptly. "Touch me then." This time his voice is rich with a mocking desire that tempts me to slap the smirk that's likely on his face.

Instead I reach up as he's all but invited me too, this time to find out what he 'looks' like. I reach until I touch his cheek again, very gingerly this time, as I am not totally convinced the bastard won't bite me this time. After a pause, I allow my hand to continue up to a broad forehead and bald scalp, then down across the ridges of his eyebrows and a prominent nose to the other cheek. His features I find are relatively symmetrical and strong. I linger for a moment on his cheek, enjoying the contact even though it's with him. There have never been many people who choose to allow me to see them this way. My own father refused, stating it was not an appropriate contact to allow between a father and a daughter. I always thought he was full of shit, frankly, but I have to admit this does feel somewhat intimate between Riddick and I. I trace lower to discover full lips, and I drop my hand away as my traitorous mind admits he would likely be considered a handsome man by most people. I think back to Frye's response, and decide that's likely true even of the people he terrifies. I shake the uncomfortable contemplation of Riddick's appearance away, and instead lift the mouthpiece of the breather unit out toward his lips.

"Here, I heard you wheezing earlier. We think the O2 levels must be lower than Standard here." I don't feel or hear him take a hit off the breather, and impatiently, I reach up with my free hand to actually guide the mouthpiece to his lips. "Oh, don't be stubborn," I chide as if to a small child. "You know you need to breathe, Mr. Riddick."

After another pause, I feel his lips wrap around the tube and he takes a long deep breath and then a second and a third, each a long controlled inhalation, taking in as much as he can. I dare say he likely thinks it might be the last deep breaths he'll take for a while, and he might be right if the others get wind of my little visit. He lets the tube drop from his mouth, and I allow the breather unit to sag back against my side. Then I twist around reaching for the opening of my bag.

"I've water, too. Not much, though. It was four bottles for all of us. I'm sharing this with Jack and Shazza."

"And me," he says unnecessarily, his voice so low it's barely a rumble in his chest, and I doubt anyone but me could have heard it, even standing as close as I was.

I pull the bottle out and uncap it without saying anything else, feeling oddly shy. I ignore the feeling, and tuck the cap into my pocket, knowing this will likely be more difficult to do without Riddick's hands free. I hold the bottle firmly with my stronger right hand, and the tuck the left along the back of Riddick's neck. I press the bottle carefully to his lips and then pull his head back slightly before allowing the bottle to tip a little, hoping I won't spill the bloody thing all over the convict. I hear the sound of him taking several deep swallows, and then he leans his head forwards again, signaling for me to remove the bottle. I do so, thoroughly surprised we'd managed that without a terrible mess. I wait for a moment to see if he'll ask for more then shrug and twist the cap on, and replace the bottle in my bag. There's a long moment of silence, and I wish for a moment that I could see to judge the emotions on his face. Just when I've almost decided to simply turn and leave, he speaks again holding me in place with his voice.

"You surprise me. It's been a while since a grown woman wasn't afraid of me," he mused aloud. His scent shifts slightly in a way I can't quite recognize, and the strangeness of it distracts me for a moment from what he's said, then I shake my head slightly.

"You're wrong. I _am_ afraid of you, Mr. Riddick." I shrug, forcing back the strange aggravation that I am not as brave as he seems to think I am, and then go on. "But you must remember, I am a grown _blind_ woman who's one of a very few survivors of a ship crashed on a desert planet. Half of the survivors think I am at best an inconvenience, and the others have thought to throw me to the proverbial wolves."

"Meaning me," he interjected and I shrugged again.

"You, or god help me, perhaps to whatever they discover killed Zeke." I cannot suppress a shiver as the memory of the gunshots and screams comes over me again. I shake myself sharply, not caring that he likely will see the reaction as a weakness. "My point, Mr. Riddick, is that right now you are only one of the things I fear. I'm afraid of nearly everything now, with the possible exception of young Jack." Without truly meaning to do so, I reach forward again to brush my fingers against his cheek. "At least now you are a known fear; I have faced you, and that makes me just the slightest bit stronger, I think." I furrow my brow a little. "Or stupid. Damned if I can decide which."

He lets out a bark of laughter, likely startling us both, and I think I imagine him leaning into my hand for an instant. I am not imagining when he twists his head to catch me with his teeth again. This time, however, it's painfully gentle, and I again force myself into stillness. It is not fear that twists in my stomach now, though. He releases me with a brush of his lips and I hear him breathe in deep, taking in the way my own scent has changed despite my desire to hide it. He chuckles again, and I suppress a groan as the sound all but caresses my skin.

"Run along and play, Princess. They'll get back soon, and you shouldn't be here when they do."

I nod a farewell, not trusting my voice, and then turn to go, tracing the same path back along his skin to his chains to the wall to the stairs. I climb slowly, unexpectedly reluctant to leave.


	9. Allies

I return to my hidden away little corner of the ship by feel and memory, tracing the railings and walls to the crates I'd tucked myself into before. There, I allow myself a few swallows of the water I've shared with the Riddick below, and chuckle at my fancy as I almost imagine the taste of his lips on the bottle.

It is safe to say he intrigues me, and were I not in mortal peril, I think that alone would frighten me. Were the circumstances different and we not crash landed on a desert planet, I would likely be calling for my father's security team as we speak.

But I am here in this place, and I only seem to think of his mouth against my hand a moment before, of his skin beneath my fingers, and of his scent lingering in air of the ship. He has been closer to me than any man before, though at my age I am embarrassed to admit that, even in the privacy of my own thoughts. He is the only man so far to look past the glasses that advertise my condition to see that there is a woman below.

I wonder what that says about me that the first man who seems to find me attractive is a convict and a murder. An animal, a monster even, if Johns is to be believed. And yet…

Yes, I daresay I find Riddick at least as attractive as he finds me. At least for now anyway. I know adrenaline can alter such emotions even if I've never experienced it before. My fear may very well be was sets my pulse racing, as much or more than the man. I suppose I will have to wait and see. Once we're safe… if we're safe, it may well be a different story.

A sudden crash below has me coming to my feet all at once, instinct drawing me on guard. A second pair of crashes call me to the stairs like a siren, and they are followed by a three more and then four. It takes the last set for me to recognize the sound of chains in the cacophony, and I wonder for a moment if the Riddick thinks to escape again or is merely testing his bonds. Or if something else has set the caged beast on edge.

I am about to call out to him with the faintest echo of a scream reaches my ears from outside the ship toward where the others have gone searching. A second scream breaks the silence, and I step away from the stairs.

"You hear it," he calls up to me from below, and I half turn to answer.

"Yes. Sounds like Frye, I think."

"I'd get ready. I bet she met what got Zeke." He lets out a low predatory chuckle at the thought, and I shiver at the sound of it. He's probably right – Frye seemed rather determined to prove her courage before she left. It would have been safer to stay away, or so the trembling of the ground seems to tell me, to speak to something deep within my skin. No, Frye would know now that Riddick was innocent, of this murder, at least. And one more able body, one more extremely able body like the one I'd felt beneath my fingertips… That could be an asset as I'd already discovered. It would not be a stretch to think the other survivors might catch on to that idea. I hmm thoughtfully to myself, considering the idea before I call back to answer Riddick.

"I bet you're right. And if so, they should be back soon, and then," I turn my head towards the stairs and the bay were he waits, "Then I have a feeling you'll be joining us."

"I look forward to it." The low rumble of his voice seems to caress my skin even from this distance, and I shiver at the feel of it.

"So do I," I whisper, almost hoping he won't hear it, though I know he likely does.

I pull myself away from the railing, surprisingly reluctant to do so. I tread the steps back to my corner again, and gather up my effects of satchel, breather, and water bottle and move up to the front of the ship, following the wall and the heat to the entrance where I wait silently for the group I know will arrive any moment.

Their voices precede them, near frantic explosions of curse words and recriminations flying from one adult to the other, with Jack piping up with worried cries for assurance and inclusion in their plans. Only the holy man seems to radiate calm, his words flowing forth from his lips like the water we all needed out here in the desert. To my surprise and interest, it is he who speaks first of letting the beast off its chain. Of the need to band together as a species if nothing else.

"Interesting," I muse quietly, then deliberately shut my mouth before the others reach the ship and my position. It would be better to keep my silence. Still I can't help but lean out slightly and toss in one single and admittedly catty question. "Found something, I take it?"

Johns' reaction is expectedly vicious and to the point, though really I doubt even I after years of yoga and Pilates am quite flexible enough to take his suggestion seriously. Even if I cared to in the first place, which of course, I do not. I can't help but grin a little at his obvious disquiet, which I doubt helps my case, but I am so bloody tired of being treated like an imbecile simply because I cannot see.

I suppose it is nice to be proven so very right in my earlier defense of the man chained up in the hold below. Or at least my defense of his innocence in this case. It is also a testament to my senses or so I hope. I certainly can't judge any of the others' reactions to that fact, but at least I know I was right. It is a small comfort, but by God I will cling to it.

As if my thought of the Creator calls his servant to me, I suddenly smell incense and sense a feel of height beside me.

"I realize I had not thanked you for the water. It was generous of you." Imam's voice is like a balm, and his words even more so. One of my fellow survivors is willing to directly address me again, even after Shazza's prior dismissal of my presence. I am embarrassed it is almost enough to make me weep, but I gather myself quickly.

"You're welcome. It's the least I could do." He hmms in agreement and then rests a hand on my shoulder.

"It is enough, child. It is enough." Johns suddenly brushes past both of us with enough force to nearly send me falling if not for Imam's hand. He asks if I'm alright and I nod and shrug. Johns will not change his opinion of me anytime soon. I don't expect him to. I thank Imam, and he leaves my side after another light pat of my shoulder.

The others have gathered just slightly to my left around Frye who seems to be calling out orders again, this time for our departure or so I gather. Then the group is scattering, looking for anything they can carry that might be of use. There's no telling when we will be back to the ship for the rest of the power cells, and I silently wonder at the intelligence of the decision to leave so many behind. Seems a waste of precious energy in this heat, to make the trip more than once. But again, it is not as if my input has any value. I stay by the entrance and out of the way. Even if I could see to search, I can't think of anything of mine that I need now that I've changed into more sensible clothing and found the water as I'd promised. I do have the satchel, though, and I mention as such to Jack when she scampers by – that if she needs me to carry something, I am certainly able.

Both she and Imam take me up on my offer, and the holy man's water bottle joins mine in my bag, and Jack tucks away several other smaller items that likely only I or Shazza of the survivors could guess at. Otherwise I am unhindered by anything else in the way of weight. It's almost aggravating to be so less than useful, but there's little I can do about it. I almost make the offer to Shazza, but she has yet to speak to me since returning, and I am somehow determined that she should make the first gesture. It's petty of me, but her dismissal still stings.

In any case, before I can discover if I'll be tempted to approach Shazza despite myself, the slightest sound of a boot tread has me turning sharply to face the ship itself. The wild scent of him tells me who approaches even before Paris's snide remarks about the dog getting off its leash. I do my best not to show any interest beyond my attention to his approach, but I don't know if I am quite successful.

"Looks like the freaks all get along," Johns mutters from a little distance off, and now I know one of us was too obvious, though it might have been Riddick instead of me. He might be silent, but he's large enough I somehow doubt he'd be exactly subtle when out in the open. Why should he be? I doubt he has ever had to pretend to be anything but exactly what he is, and you would think the other survivors would realize that. It would be worse, I think, though the others likely would disagree. At least they know him and the danger he represents. He's a known factor, for all that he might be unpredictable and threatening. Still, it doesn't seem that anyone else sees that fact that way I do. Well besides Jack who clearly has a bit of hero worship for the convict, or so Paris reveals with a disbelieving mention of the 'boy's' changing appearance to match Riddick's. In any case, the anxious whispers and shaky muttering make it clear that Jack and I are likely the only two who aren't worried about the new face among us.

I hear Johns order Riddick into some kind of a harness, and I guess they must be forcing him into the role of beast of burden. It doesn't surprise me, but I am surprised it irks me a bit. I know what they think of him, but damned if anyone deserves to carry and haul in this heat – especially the only person who (as far as Johns knows) hasn't had access to water or a breather so far. It's cruel and callous, and only re-affirms my dislike of the other man.

There's no point in arguing though, and Riddick shows no sign of discontent, at least not that I can sense. I am distracted before I can really focus on him, though. Imam returns and presses something into my hand gently.

"Here, child. See if this will be of any use to you." I slide my fingers along the item, finding a long thin length of cool metal beneath the sensitive pads. One end is rough as if it was broken off from somewhere in the wreckage, but the other end is smooth and fits my hand fairly well.

"A cane?" I ask, surprised and delighted someone has thought to find such a thing for me.

"Indeed, if it fits your height properly," he says, seeming as delighted by the gift as I am. I run my hands down the full stretch of it again, mentally gauging the overall length.

"It should be just about right," I muse and take hold of the broken end carefully to reach out until the rod just barely brushed the ground ahead of me. It's a little longer than the one I'd used at home, but not by much, and not enough to make too much of a difference. I test it out, taking a few careful steps down the corridor and am pleased to find the cane does wonders for my confidence and my coordination. I may still bump into things in such unfamiliar surroundings, but it will be far less with the cane in hand. "This will work beautifully, Imam. Thank you!"

I can't help the broad smile creeping across my face, but I do not think Imam will mock me for it. He brushes off my thanks with some comment or other. By that point, I am distracted enough by my gift not to pay that much attention. It is only when Imam directs me to follow him back outside where the others are gathering that I realize all must be ready to go or nearly.

I head towards the heat of the outdoors, make-shift cane tapping away, the sound more comforting then I would have guessed. With it to guide me, I maneuver past the various obstacles in the corridor and reach the lip of the grating, the sudden dip of my cane warning me that I would need to step down. I carefully step up to the edge, and then tested the height of the step with the cane. It isn't far, but it will still be a bit exciting without a better aid. Oh well.

I am preparing to step down when I catch the barest hint of an identifying scent and then a large calloused hand is grasping mine. Riddick doesn't bother to speak; he just stands there waiting. I bury a smile, mindful of those around us, but I still allow him to support my weight as I ease down to the sand and gravel. I keep hold of his hand, clinging to the thought of that veiled alliance between us, until I have the cane ready in my hand and back in front of me. Only then, do I let go, though even I would have to admit my hand lingers as it slipped through his fingers.

"Thank you, Mr. Riddick." Johns scoffs from a few feet to my left, but I ignore him. Never mind that it had been rather kind of Riddick to help me, even with his not-so-subtle interest, but I have been raised up in polite society after all. If some one helps you, you thank them. It's basic courtesy, no matter who your helper might be or what motives they might have had for helping you. Even a bastard like Johns should be able to appreciate that mindset, shouldn't he? Well possibly not. I daresay he didn't have anything like my upbringing, though he probably would get along with some of my dear father's less than savory business associates. He certainly has similar… habits, shall we say. Bastard.

I shake off the thought of my father up on his high horse so far away, and bring myself back to the present as Johns orders us all to get moving. Riddick has moved away from me, and as I make my careful way along in the wake of the other survivors' clattering footsteps, I hear the scrape of something sliding over rocks and sand to the rear of the group. He's taking up the rear behind the group, and I find myself glad that we have a guard at our backs.

He might not see himself that way, of course, but I think the description might prove somewhat accurate if whatever took Zeke decides to attack our little convoy. Maybe only if it attacks from Riddick's direction, but still, it is better than no guard at all. I doubt Johns will do much more than cover his own ass, despite the gun he's been oh-so-subtly loading and cocking off and on at every possible opportunity. It strikes me that he might be compensating a wee bit with the big gauge. That might just be petty of me, however amusing the thought.

Jack returns to my side at some point along our trek, her exuberant strides seeming to be unhindered by the low oxygen levels and dehydration. I offer her water before she can even begin to speak to me, and I make her take a drink and then a hit off her breather. Only then do I allow her to chatter away as she so clearly wants to. She keeps her voice relatively low as she gives me a running commentary on the political games that have continued while we all walked, and I smother a chuckle as she manages fairly accurate imitations of each survivor. She's a feisty little thing and far, far more observant that I had quite realized. I continue to listen as she talks, and the pleasant company helps the time to pass much more easily than if I was walking in the relative solitude I'd found myself in prior to her joining me.

Other than Jack's bubbly conversation, the only minor moment of amusement was Paris's first face-to-face conversation with the convict among us. I had to admit, for a weasely little rat of a man, Paris proved to have a spine after all, daring to introduce himself to Riddick as if without a care in the world. I might have to re-think my earlier opinion of the man as a feckless self-absorbed coward if this keeps up. It probably won't. And really, now that I think of it, as an 'antiquities dealer and entrepreneur,' Paris might well have come across other men of dubious legal standing. It seems likely to me that the only kind of dealer I can imagine traveling a freighter like the one we'd crashed in would be a smuggler. Perhaps the weasel is not so above the rest of us as he has pretended so far.

That makes me wonder what else my fellow survivors might be hiding. I already know Frye's dark truth and Jack's secret identity, and now Paris's, as well. The thought that the others might have kept information back as well?

Well, that thought is just… interesting.


End file.
